


Sunset in Vvardenfell

by LegendaryBard



Series: The Elder Scrolls Chronicles [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Fluff, Gen, paternal grumpiness, sunset musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15423681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Things always follow you when you feed them. You'd think he'd have learned that by now.( OC-centric, self-indulgent and platonic feelgood stuff. More for me than a potential reader. )





	Sunset in Vvardenfell

“I have a problem,” The Altmer has a particular sound to his voice, quiet as if he wishes he couldn’t be heard, somber and suppressed. It’s not irregular for him to sound this way- in fact, that’s how he normally is- but for him to admit to having a ‘problem’ is unusual. 

“Yeah?” Delaney pauses for a moment.

The two adventurers have set up a small encampment by the side of the road- the horses stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, surveying the lush fields of Vvardenfell for any danger. A fire pit rests in the center of the encampment, a small scoop dug from the earth and flanked by stone. A few logs blaze within it, a beacon of warm light amidst the greying, firefly-pocked twilight. 

Two tents have been erected, with their respective packs inside their respective tents. A vvardvark haunch roasts over the open flame, wafting the smell of meat as the skin begins to gold and the fire spits from the dripping fat. 

Delaney has comfortably stretched across a bedroll, back propped up against a nearby boulder. Her sword rests in her lap, with a repetitive scrape of steel on stone as she slides a whetstone across it. Her hair, drawn back in a band, is messy; the day’s trials and tribulations have caused some dark strands to escape. There’s a bottle resting by her side- homebrewed sujamma- with the lid uncapped. A dot of the liquer shines at the corner of her mouth. 

“This  _ thing,”  _ Agriel sucks in breath through his teeth, “Won’t leave me be.” 

A guar stands at his heel, loyally. It’s smaller than the typical mount one would ride, or even the beast-of-burden pack guar. It’s chubby, with prominent fangs and tiny, distrustful eyes, but it leans against the Altmer’s knee like a lovesick puppy. Its fat, stumpy tail even waggles. 

Delaney nearly snorts up her sujamma. 

“What did you  _ do?”  _

“Nothing!” He objects. “It looked hungry so I fed it, and now it won’t go away! I tried leaving it on a cliff, I tried running past a horde of angry kwama, I tried wading into deep water- it just kept following me the whole way!” 

Delaney puts down her whetstone, grabs the sujamma bottle, and takes a mighty pull. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Guess we gotta keep it then.” 

“ _ No,”  _ He responds, horrified. “I don’t want to be responsible for this ugly little thing-” 

She purses her lips. “You’d let it run around by itself? You’d let it  _ die?”  _

“That’s not fair,” He says. 

He walks over to her, the guar matching him step for step, and he sits down, sinking a fork into the roasting vvardvark. 

The guar sits, too. The Altmer gives it a hateful glare, but it doesn’t move, its too-big legs splayed awkwardly and its tail perfectly flat behind it. It’s cute, in an ugly and lopsided kind of way best suited to young animals who haven’t grown into their ungainly paws. 

He removes a sliver of haunch and, careful to not burn himself, flicks it towards the guar, who parts its jaws and hungrily snatches it up. 

The Altmer sighs, resignedly, and portions out a plate for both himself and Delaney, giving the vvardvark leftovers to the tiny guar. They both eat in relative silence, barring the snap of the logs, the ravenous feasting of the guar, and the buzz of the insects in the ruffling grass. After the meal is over, it’s joined by the soothing rasp-rasp-rasp of Delaney’s whetstone. 

The tent flap opens, the top of the Altmer’s pack unlatches, and a sheet of paper, a stoppered ink bottle, and a quill float towards him. They hover indecisively around him until Delaney speaks up: 

“What’cha doin’?” 

“Trying to figure out what to write to Solvi.” 

Letters were a nightly occurrence for the Altmer- often delivered the next time the two adventurers happened to be anyplace civilized enough for there to be a reliable courier service.

“Whatever you usually do,” Delaney says. 

He thinks for a moment- glancing up, at the levitating paper, then at the swollen-bellied, runty guar. 

“I’ll ask her to name it,” He decides. 

 


End file.
